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justlurkinghereOnce they got to the animal clinic--Derek was going to murder someone for this bit of irony if he survived--the key wasn't too difficult for Stiles to find. He opened up the loading dock door, ignoring Derek as he collapsed against a pile of donated dog food bags.
Inside the clinic, the animals were less than pleased by the presence of yet another werewolf on premise.
Derek closed his eyes, leaning against the wall as he let Stiles get the door unlocked.
"Does Northern blue monkshood mean anything to you?"
He was resting here, Stiles! Resting! "It's a rare form of wolfsbane," Derek replied, forcing his eyes open. "He has to bring me the bullet."
"Why?"
"'Cause I'm gonna die without it," Derek replied simply, watching that sink in on Stiles' face. It almost made up for the whole letting him die on the side of the road thing.
---
In the short distance from the back door into the examination room of the clinic, Derek had managed to get his shirt half off. Only half off because he couldn't work too well with the one arm, and the other arm was now using Stiles as a sort of crutch slash seeing eye teenager. Be a good boy and lead him to the doggy bed, Stiles.
Oh, and there went the shirt the rest of the way once Stiles moved away to turn on the lights.
Stay classy, Derek.
Though, with the shirt out of the way, you could now clearly see the black veins stemming out from the bullet hole at the crook of his arm. Which apparently didn't sit well with Stiles. "Okay. You know, that really doesn't look like anything some echinacea and a good night of sleep couldn't take care of," he ventured weakly.
Derek swayed on his feet, looking around for his plan B rather than respond to that. "When the infection reaches my heart, it'll kill me."
"'Positivity' just isn't in your vocabulary, is it?"
Not in that cabinet, not in that one--Derek dug around in the drawers, ignoring anything that wasn't helpful to him right now. Like medicines. Or bandages. "If he doesn't get here with the bullet in time– Last resort."
"Which is?" Stiles prompted.
Finally.
Derek pulled out a bone saw, holding it up for Stiles to see. "You're gonna cut off my arm."
Yeah. This was going to go well for everyone involved. He'd be the one armed werewolf as long as the kid didn't do too bad of a hack job on his arm. And he didn't bleed out. Or go into shock. Or--there were a lot of things that could go wrong here, to be honest.
Derek shoved the saw across the examination table to where Stiles was, grabbing a band to cut off the circulation to his arm just above where the black visible black veins ended. He heard the clatter of the saw against the table and then the sound of it being turned on and then off.
"Oh, my God." Stiles whined, dropping it back onto the table. "What if you bleed to death?"
"It'll heal if it works," Derek muttered, one end of the tourniquet in his mouth so that he could tighten it enough that the bleeding out thing wouldn't happen. Hopefully.
"Ugh. Look– I don't know if I can do this."
Well, you could always help him with this goddamn tourniquet, Stiles. Just putting it out there. "Why not?
"Well." There was the noisy sound of nervous swallowing at that. "Because of the cutting through the flesh, the sawing of the bone, and especially the blood!"
Ugh, don't be a wimp, Stiles. You saw worse in horror movies all the time. YOU MADE DEREK WATCH IT. Derek let his arm fall limp on the table so that he could appropriately express his annoyance. "You faint at the sight of blood?"
"No, but I might at the sight of a chopped off arm," Stiles snapped.
Derek sighed, using all the strength he had in him to restrain himself from doing something rash. "All right, fine. How about this? Either you cut off my arm, or I'm gonna cut off your head."
"Okay, you know what, I'm so not buying your threats any–" Stiles' protests were abruptly cut off as that restraint evaporated and Derek grabbed him roughly by the collar and yanked hard. He was seriously running out of time here. "Oh, my God. Okay. Alright, bought, sold. Totally. I'll do it. I'll do it."
Oh. Oh, this was not going to be good. Derek could feel something rising in his gullet.
"What?" Stiles asked, more confused than alarmed by Derek's 'I'm about to puke' head bob.' Because it was really more something you saw with animals, Derek. "What are you doing?"
Derek leaned over the side of the table, not letting go of Stiles' shirt. Because of reasons. Reasons that had nothing to do with balance. And then puked up something that looked inky black and god awful. Very much like what Jackson had leaking out of him last time he saw the kid on the island.
"Holy God, what the hell is that?" Stiles squeaked. Like a girl. Totally like a girl.
Letting go of the kid, he slumped against the table, injured arm ready for the saw. Because he was freakin' insane. "It's my body–" he started, trying to suppress another round of puking up the most horrific stuff ever. "Trying to heal itself."
"Well, it's not doing a very good job of it!" He hated you so much right now, Stiles. So, so much.
"Now," Derek said, closing his eyes. "You gotta do it now."
Which is of course when Stiles would decide to try to weasel his way out of this. "Look, honestly, I don't think I can."
"Just do it!" Derek snapped with more force that he really felt. Go, the will to live!
"Oh, my God," Stiles muttered, picking up the saw and giving it another test before placing the blade against Derek's skin. This was the worst idea in a very, very long history of bad ideas. Very long. "Okay, okay. Oh, my God. Alright, here we go!"
He only paused when there came a, "Stiles?"
"Scott?" Stiles turned away, not moving the saw away just yet. In case it was some hallucination that he concocted to escape this horror movie that was his life.
And then Scott had to be the voice of reason as he came in through the doorway and saw what was going on. "What the hell are you doing?"
The saw hit the table again as Stiles stepped back, relief palpable. "Oh, you just prevented a lifetime of nightmares."
Derek was still in the room, people. Remember the dying guy? Who had yet to be able to shove himself back up from the table. "Did you get it?" And only once Scott fished the bullet out of his pocket did he manage to push himself up to a standing position.
"What are you gonna do with it?" Stiles asked, voice fading in and out of Derek's hearing.
That wasn't a good sign, was it? Derek held the bullet up to look at, trying and failing to focus on it. It seemed standing up had been a very, very bad idea. Such is life for Derek Hale. "I'm gonna– I'm gonna–"
He was gonna pass out, it seemed. Only distantly did he hear Scott's panicked, "No. No, no, no, no!" and Stiles' trying to get him to wake up. You try being on the top of your game while poisoned. It was not easy.
It wasn't until the sudden pain to his jaw that he came back to his senses. And Stiles cursing and holding his own hand like he'd--punched Derek. Of course.
"Give me–"
"Up!" Scott thankfully shoved the bullet into his hand as he lifted him back onto his feet. He was feeling more and more like Scott was the least annoying of the two today.
As Stiles was still busy with his, "Ow! God."
Once he was upright and leaning against the table again, Derek broke the bullet in half with his teeth, letting the wolfsbane inside sprinkle onto the table. Right. He just had to--reach into his pocket and grab his lighter. Once that was obtained, he set the sprinklings on fire, watching almost in a daze as it produced a blue smoke similar to what had come off the wound when he was first shot.
He scooped it into his hand, taking a deep breath before slapping it against the bullet hole, making certain to shove it in with his fingertips despite the pain. And if he screamed once or twice, it was only to be expected. He fell over again as it took effect, back snapping back as pain coursed through his body. But slowly--to him at least--it worked, clearing out what had stopped him from healing and allowing the process to work as it was intended to.
It was done by the time he heard Stiles say, "That. Was. Awesome! Yes!" With a little whoop of joy.
At least Scott had the grace to ask, "Are you okay?"
"Well, except for the agonizing pain," Derek managed, dragging himself onto his feet under his own power. "Yeah."
"I'm guessing the ability to use sarcasm is a good sign of health," Stiles said, only drawing back once he was glared at.
Which was apparently the wrong move if he wanted Scott to help him. "Okay, we saved your life, which means you're gonna leave us alone, you got that?" he said, courage growing the more he spoke. "And if you don't, I'm gonna go back to Allison's dad, and I'm gonna tell him everything–"
"You're gonna trust them?" Derek asked, wondering just when he forgot about being shot with a crossbow. "You think they can help you?"
"Well, why not? They're a lot freaking nicer than you are."
Derek just stared at him, trying and failing to even respond to that using his words. Because you didn't really enjoy being told the people who slaughtered your family were nice. "I can show you exactly how nice they are," he said instead.
And now Scott looked wary. Good for him. A little late for that, though. "What do you mean?"
[[NFB, NFI! Taken from Magic Bullet]]
Inside the clinic, the animals were less than pleased by the presence of yet another werewolf on premise.
Derek closed his eyes, leaning against the wall as he let Stiles get the door unlocked.
"Does Northern blue monkshood mean anything to you?"
He was resting here, Stiles! Resting! "It's a rare form of wolfsbane," Derek replied, forcing his eyes open. "He has to bring me the bullet."
"Why?"
"'Cause I'm gonna die without it," Derek replied simply, watching that sink in on Stiles' face. It almost made up for the whole letting him die on the side of the road thing.
---
In the short distance from the back door into the examination room of the clinic, Derek had managed to get his shirt half off. Only half off because he couldn't work too well with the one arm, and the other arm was now using Stiles as a sort of crutch slash seeing eye teenager. Be a good boy and lead him to the doggy bed, Stiles.
Oh, and there went the shirt the rest of the way once Stiles moved away to turn on the lights.
Stay classy, Derek.
Though, with the shirt out of the way, you could now clearly see the black veins stemming out from the bullet hole at the crook of his arm. Which apparently didn't sit well with Stiles. "Okay. You know, that really doesn't look like anything some echinacea and a good night of sleep couldn't take care of," he ventured weakly.
Derek swayed on his feet, looking around for his plan B rather than respond to that. "When the infection reaches my heart, it'll kill me."
"'Positivity' just isn't in your vocabulary, is it?"
Not in that cabinet, not in that one--Derek dug around in the drawers, ignoring anything that wasn't helpful to him right now. Like medicines. Or bandages. "If he doesn't get here with the bullet in time– Last resort."
"Which is?" Stiles prompted.
Finally.
Derek pulled out a bone saw, holding it up for Stiles to see. "You're gonna cut off my arm."
Yeah. This was going to go well for everyone involved. He'd be the one armed werewolf as long as the kid didn't do too bad of a hack job on his arm. And he didn't bleed out. Or go into shock. Or--there were a lot of things that could go wrong here, to be honest.
Derek shoved the saw across the examination table to where Stiles was, grabbing a band to cut off the circulation to his arm just above where the black visible black veins ended. He heard the clatter of the saw against the table and then the sound of it being turned on and then off.
"Oh, my God." Stiles whined, dropping it back onto the table. "What if you bleed to death?"
"It'll heal if it works," Derek muttered, one end of the tourniquet in his mouth so that he could tighten it enough that the bleeding out thing wouldn't happen. Hopefully.
"Ugh. Look– I don't know if I can do this."
Well, you could always help him with this goddamn tourniquet, Stiles. Just putting it out there. "Why not?
"Well." There was the noisy sound of nervous swallowing at that. "Because of the cutting through the flesh, the sawing of the bone, and especially the blood!"
Ugh, don't be a wimp, Stiles. You saw worse in horror movies all the time. YOU MADE DEREK WATCH IT. Derek let his arm fall limp on the table so that he could appropriately express his annoyance. "You faint at the sight of blood?"
"No, but I might at the sight of a chopped off arm," Stiles snapped.
Derek sighed, using all the strength he had in him to restrain himself from doing something rash. "All right, fine. How about this? Either you cut off my arm, or I'm gonna cut off your head."
"Okay, you know what, I'm so not buying your threats any–" Stiles' protests were abruptly cut off as that restraint evaporated and Derek grabbed him roughly by the collar and yanked hard. He was seriously running out of time here. "Oh, my God. Okay. Alright, bought, sold. Totally. I'll do it. I'll do it."
Oh. Oh, this was not going to be good. Derek could feel something rising in his gullet.
"What?" Stiles asked, more confused than alarmed by Derek's 'I'm about to puke' head bob.' Because it was really more something you saw with animals, Derek. "What are you doing?"
Derek leaned over the side of the table, not letting go of Stiles' shirt. Because of reasons. Reasons that had nothing to do with balance. And then puked up something that looked inky black and god awful. Very much like what Jackson had leaking out of him last time he saw the kid on the island.
"Holy God, what the hell is that?" Stiles squeaked. Like a girl. Totally like a girl.
Letting go of the kid, he slumped against the table, injured arm ready for the saw. Because he was freakin' insane. "It's my body–" he started, trying to suppress another round of puking up the most horrific stuff ever. "Trying to heal itself."
"Well, it's not doing a very good job of it!" He hated you so much right now, Stiles. So, so much.
"Now," Derek said, closing his eyes. "You gotta do it now."
Which is of course when Stiles would decide to try to weasel his way out of this. "Look, honestly, I don't think I can."
"Just do it!" Derek snapped with more force that he really felt. Go, the will to live!
"Oh, my God," Stiles muttered, picking up the saw and giving it another test before placing the blade against Derek's skin. This was the worst idea in a very, very long history of bad ideas. Very long. "Okay, okay. Oh, my God. Alright, here we go!"
He only paused when there came a, "Stiles?"
"Scott?" Stiles turned away, not moving the saw away just yet. In case it was some hallucination that he concocted to escape this horror movie that was his life.
And then Scott had to be the voice of reason as he came in through the doorway and saw what was going on. "What the hell are you doing?"
The saw hit the table again as Stiles stepped back, relief palpable. "Oh, you just prevented a lifetime of nightmares."
Derek was still in the room, people. Remember the dying guy? Who had yet to be able to shove himself back up from the table. "Did you get it?" And only once Scott fished the bullet out of his pocket did he manage to push himself up to a standing position.
"What are you gonna do with it?" Stiles asked, voice fading in and out of Derek's hearing.
That wasn't a good sign, was it? Derek held the bullet up to look at, trying and failing to focus on it. It seemed standing up had been a very, very bad idea. Such is life for Derek Hale. "I'm gonna– I'm gonna–"
He was gonna pass out, it seemed. Only distantly did he hear Scott's panicked, "No. No, no, no, no!" and Stiles' trying to get him to wake up. You try being on the top of your game while poisoned. It was not easy.
It wasn't until the sudden pain to his jaw that he came back to his senses. And Stiles cursing and holding his own hand like he'd--punched Derek. Of course.
"Give me–"
"Up!" Scott thankfully shoved the bullet into his hand as he lifted him back onto his feet. He was feeling more and more like Scott was the least annoying of the two today.
As Stiles was still busy with his, "Ow! God."
Once he was upright and leaning against the table again, Derek broke the bullet in half with his teeth, letting the wolfsbane inside sprinkle onto the table. Right. He just had to--reach into his pocket and grab his lighter. Once that was obtained, he set the sprinklings on fire, watching almost in a daze as it produced a blue smoke similar to what had come off the wound when he was first shot.
He scooped it into his hand, taking a deep breath before slapping it against the bullet hole, making certain to shove it in with his fingertips despite the pain. And if he screamed once or twice, it was only to be expected. He fell over again as it took effect, back snapping back as pain coursed through his body. But slowly--to him at least--it worked, clearing out what had stopped him from healing and allowing the process to work as it was intended to.
It was done by the time he heard Stiles say, "That. Was. Awesome! Yes!" With a little whoop of joy.
At least Scott had the grace to ask, "Are you okay?"
"Well, except for the agonizing pain," Derek managed, dragging himself onto his feet under his own power. "Yeah."
"I'm guessing the ability to use sarcasm is a good sign of health," Stiles said, only drawing back once he was glared at.
Which was apparently the wrong move if he wanted Scott to help him. "Okay, we saved your life, which means you're gonna leave us alone, you got that?" he said, courage growing the more he spoke. "And if you don't, I'm gonna go back to Allison's dad, and I'm gonna tell him everything–"
"You're gonna trust them?" Derek asked, wondering just when he forgot about being shot with a crossbow. "You think they can help you?"
"Well, why not? They're a lot freaking nicer than you are."
Derek just stared at him, trying and failing to even respond to that using his words. Because you didn't really enjoy being told the people who slaughtered your family were nice. "I can show you exactly how nice they are," he said instead.
And now Scott looked wary. Good for him. A little late for that, though. "What do you mean?"
[[NFB, NFI! Taken from Magic Bullet]]
